soon, we’ll be crammed around the dinner table again:
floured fingers spinning the lazy susan, chopsticks clinking
against our bowls. we’ll sip barley tea and gossip about
the aunties down the street. the dumplings will be bursting at fleshy
seams, steaming hot. when mama pours vinegar over
the soft dough and sits the dumpling gently into her spoon,
it will feel like we never left.